The No-Name Bar

The bar didn't have a name. Just the flickering outline of a martini glass above the door, like a sizzling piece of neon bacon beckoning in the Tenderloin night.

It was a simple, no-frills watering hole.

The decor was stark: a bar extending down the left as you walked in opposite several tables with chairs to the right. A pool table and a dart board flanked the tables, and a jukebox stood sentry as you walked past the bar to the woefully-unclean bathroom.

The bartender on most nights was Sam, as old as Job, but drunker, shakier, and saltier.

But the drinks were cheap, and they were ferocious:

$1.50 PBR or Coors cans.
$3.00 pitchers of PBR, Bud, or Coors.
$2.00 cocktails that were $1.95 cock and $0.05 tail - Sam apparently didn't realize that rum and cokes came with coke, gin and tonics with tonic, and... well, you get the picture.

You could get fucked up quick and cheap.

And with the two decisions of a lifetime looming, it was just what I needed.